


380. The end of the world

by tveckling



Series: Dare to Write challenge [61]
Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Comfort/Angst, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-16 00:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19307338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tveckling/pseuds/tveckling
Summary: There’s an empty space in Mercutio’s chest as he watches the last of the lights fade away in the distance. The smile fell from his face a long time ago, but he didn’t even notice it at the time. All he could think of was the scream stuck in his throat, and the way his hands gripped the edges of the railing too hard.





	380. The end of the world

There’s an empty space in Mercutio’s chest as he watches the last of the lights fade away in the distance. The smile fell from his face a long time ago, but he didn’t even notice it at the time. All he could think of was the scream stuck in his throat, and the way his hands gripped the edges of the railing too hard.

Now he walks, the sound of his steps echoing around him in the large hall. He grew up watching his uncle receive guests and solve quarrels in this hall, and there’s not a point in his memory when it was dark and quiet. Not like it is now, lit only by the torch in his hand, occupied by no other living being than himself. But, he thinks as he sits down on the throne, the space is inhabited by countless upon countless of souls. If he closes his eyes he can feel them, their ghostly touches trailing over his skin, whispers too soft to actually be heard breathed into his ears.

He’s the last of his family. He has a duty, even as he’s fought most of his life up to this point to pretend he doesn’t, and he can’t ignore the looks at his back, the weight on his shoulders, the pressure around his throat. Once he allowed himself to think, once he let himself disconnect from the grief and horror, he knew what he had to do. The first order as Prince, as his uncle’s successor, was also his last - for his people to survive, for them to prosper, for them to _live_ , they have to move away from this place where only death and hatred exist. For them to succeed, for the spirits of the past to be released, this place must cease to be.

And Mercutio knows, he knew, in the dark of his soul he’s always known, that he will be the one to destroy it.

Outside the windows the light’s growing stronger, from all directions, and Mercutio leans his chin on his hand as he stares into empty space. Below his feet he can feel tremors as building after building collapse, but he finds himself frowning, thinking through his preparations. It should all be fine, just as he planned. He made sure the destruction would be contained to the city, there’s nothing but dead land surrounding it even if his preparations would fail, and all citizens have left, taking only what’s necessary for survival and leaving the rest. Everything needs to burn, everything that belongs to the city and the hatred it contains. Mercutio kept an eye over every part of the exodus to make sure his orders were followed, ignoring complaints and bitterness and begging. He was a dead man already - he’s been a dead man his whole life - and nothing they said or did touched him.

A loud crack snaps through the air the moment before the building across the street starts to crumble, flames now making the sky flickering red and orange. The heat’s making Mercutio sweat, but he only shifts position, throws his legs over one armrest while he leans his head against the back of the throne, his arms crossed across his chest. He closes his eyes and breathes in, and he can smell the familiar, comforting scent of his uncle. It might be fantasy, or it might not, he doesn’t care. There’s nothing left for him to care about. The rest is for the living to deal with.

The crackle of fire and crumbling of stone almost mask the sound of footsteps, and Mercutio doesn’t notice them until they’re close enough that he opens his eyes and sees Benvolio less than an arm length away.

For a moment he simply stares, wondering what spirit has taken form to mock him in such a way, but then Benvolio smiles crookedly, and Mercutio shoots up from his seat, something dark and frantic howling in his chest as he grabs Benvolio’s shoulders, his fingers digging through simple cotton. “Ben! What the he- what’s going on? What are you doing here? You’re supposed to- you _can’t be here_. You can’t!“

Benvolio shrugs and takes a step forward, chasing after Mercutio who takes a quick stumbling step backwards, the back of his calves pressing against the seat of the throne now. He takes the hands that Mercutio had removed from his person as though they were on fire, and lifts them to his mouth, pressing soft lips gently against each of them. “You’re here,” he says. “How could I not be here, too?”

As if it’s that simple. As if he’s _allowed_. No one’s allowed to stay; they were all meant to leave. All but Mercutio and the rest of the dead.

Mercutio makes a noise and shakes his head, ignoring how his breath’s coming in sharp huffs, completely without his permission. With wild eyes he looks around, trying to see, trying to think, if maybe there’s some passage. Maybe there’s a basement, somewhere he can take Benvolio, somewhere that’s _safe_. “You’re not supposed to _be here_ ,” he hisses, and only when Benvolio steps closer does he look at the other man - though his gaze flicker, unable to handle the calmness Benvolio exudes.

“I said my goodbyes, and I have no regrets. Romeo understood.” Benvolio’s palm is burning as it lies against Mercutio’s cheek. “I couldn’t let you do this alone.”

Mercutio pushes him away, keeps shaking head head, and he wants to scream, wants to curse the spirits around him, wants to shake Benvolio until he stops being- _himself_. “I did this for you, for _all_ of you. For you to _live_.” He stresses the word, and he might be crying, or he might not, it’s hard to tell with how bad he’s now sweating. The flames surround the building, surround them, just as he planned it. He always knew, somewhere deep inside of himself, that he’d watch the city burn one day. But he was supposed to be _alone_.

“It’s too late anyway,” Benvolio says, echoing Mercutio’s thoughts, sounding almost _amused_. Mercutio wonders if he’d sound like that with Mercutio’s hands wrapped around his throat. “I made my choice, and you have no choice but to accept that.”

“Why do I have to accept your death?” Mercutio’s voice is but a whisper, drowned out by the roaring around them, but Benvolio smiles as though he heard every word. When he steps forward to wrap his arms around Mercutio Mercutio only leans his forehead against Benvolio’s. “You’re too good to be claimed by this place.”

“I’ll go where you go. I swore, and I intend on following that through.” Once again Benvolio smiles that crooked smile and moves his head to claim a quick kiss that Mercutio easily grants. “I don’t want to live a life without you.”

“So you decided we’ll share a grave instead,” Mercutio asks and shakes his head, but a small smile plays over his lips. The heat’s growing worse quickly, far too quickly, and the smoke’s starting to make home in his throat. It’s only a matter of time before they’re both out of time. Choosing to save his words Mercutio leans closer and presses his lips against Benvolio’s, their mouths slotting together as though they meant for one another, as though only when they’re pressed together like this are they complete.

Neither says another word, and the city burns, and the spirits watch.


End file.
